Long Distance by Rodrigo Hasbún - Words Without Borders

Then my father asks what my plans are and I make the mistake of telling him that Ignacio’s girlfriend is coming by so we can go for lunch.

“And he’s not going?” Dad asks.

“He’s away,” I say.

He says nothing. I struggle to picture him on the other end of the line.

“Dad?” I ask, hearing him grunt.

“Don’t you go fooling around with her,” he says.

I didn’t expect this from him, let alone in these terms.

“Listen to me,” he says.

“Yes,” I say.

“You’re not going to fool around with your friend’s girlfriend.”

“I know, Dad. You don’t need to tell me that.”

But he won’t let it drop.

“Ignacio has done a lot for you. You can’t do this to him.”

“I know.”

“This isn’t how you repay him,” he says.

“There’s really no need for all this,” I say.

And later, in my room, before heading out for lunch, as I enter her and start to move on top of her, I can’t get Dad’s alarmed tone of voice out of my head.

He calls again that evening, inventing some lame excuse. What he really wants to know is how it went with Ignacio’s girlfriend.

“She didn’t come in the end,” I say. “She called to say they needed her in the lab.”

He says nothing, deciding whether or not to believe me.

“And you didn’t go in, too?” he finally asks.

His life has changed substantially since they pensioned him off. He always said he would die at his desk, that he’d leave that office feet-first, but the company left him no choice.

“I went in,” I say, “but later, and just for a bit. I had the day off.”

“What did you do?” he asks, delving deeper still.

“I took the opportunity to rest,” I say, as I remember the way Emma’s face transforms when she’s about to come. First her tongue inches out and then her features slowly start to soften and there’s a moment when she’s more beautiful than ever. This look lasts until the shudders peter out, and I watch her, out of my mind, as I come inside her. Then, very quickly, she returns to herself, to her usual hardness, to what I call her Canadian distance, and more often than not she pulls apart right away, as if from one moment to the next she was repulsed by having me there at her side.

“It’s important to rest,” says Dad, even though in reality he never learned how. “I pruned the trees in the yard.”

I hear a noise in background and, with the receiver resting on my shoulder, lean out the window. Two teenagers are walking along the street, both of them in oversized coats. The snow is on its way and soon everything here will be white. As if he’d heard my thoughts, or as if I had some bearing on the trees in the yard, Dad asks if I am coming back in December.

“I don’t know yet, Dad. It all depends on the lab.”

“Well let’s hope so. By the looks of things, we can expect rich pickings from the fig this year.”

A silence hangs in the air. The teenagers have already moved on and there’s nothing on the street, absolutely nothing.

“Well, then,” he says out of nowhere.

“Well, then,” I say. But I don’t want him to go yet. Despite the fact that we have nothing left to say, despite the fact that we’ve already spoken twice today, for a second I feel like asking him to stay there a bit longer.

“Get some rest,” I say.

“Thanks,” he says.

And we hang up together.

“When’s Ignacio back?” I ask Emma the next day. We usually see each other once a week, but with him away the routine has changed.

She folds her clothes and lays them on the chair. She’s in nothing but her panties now, and in the end they, too, come off. She ignores my question.

Sometimes I think about her childhood and teenage years, about her youth, and about how different it must have been from Ignacio’s and mine. My dad and his were best friends and we grew up together. We went to the same high school, the same college, and then he came to try his luck here. He found it hard to settle in but did eventually, and a few years later he convinced me to go, too. More than anything, I accepted to get out of my miserable job, which paid less than a fifth of what Ignacio was offering.

I watch her throw herself on my bed. The heating’s on. It’s hot. A fake heat—outside everything remains cold.

We’ve hardly said a thing since she arrived, but this doesn’t matter so much now that she’s waiting for me naked in bed.

“Come here,” she says.

I stay where I am, watching her.

Her milky skin, her lush pubis.

What binds us together? Why are we here?

“Come here, go down on me,” she says seriously, without a hint of playfulness.

When I come across him in the lab, Ignacio embraces me as if we’d been reunited after years apart. He’s at least eight inches taller than me and it’s an awkward kind of hug because he doesn’t bend down far enough and for a few seconds my head rests against his chest.

He’s come back full of beans.

“Well, I can confirm that there is indeed a world out there,” he says. “The world goes on, it exists.”

I smile, but don’t say anything.

“With streets and bars and noise. With smells,” he says, “with normal folk.”

He doesn’t seem it, but he’s a seriously bright guy. I don’t know anyone as generous or dedicated to his job, although he doesn’t seem that either.

“How was the conference?” I ask, unable not to think of Emma. It’s like I can still feel her in my mouth, like she left her taste in me.

Ignacio reels off a lengthy answer.

But I can no longer focus on what he’s saying.

Dad calls in the evening. He doesn’t mention Ignacio or his girlfriend. Either he’s forgotten all about it or he’s decided it’s better not to push the matter. He does, however, bring up Christmas.

“So you’re coming back in December?” he asks.

“I’m still not sure, Dad,” I say.

“Don’t you get vacation?” he asks. “How is it possible you don’t get vacation? We’re talking about the First World, aren’t we? That’s the reason you stayed.”

Unlike Ignacio, I’ve not been home for three years; something Dad finds it hard to accept . “How come he visits and you don’t?” he asked over and over last time.

In the office the next day, I study the calendar on one of the computers.

Ignacio seems twitchy.

He manages to sneak a peek at my screen from his seat.

“You should do it,” he says.

He witnessed the damage; he knew about the prolonged devastation caused by Mom’s sudden death two years ago. I couldn’t go back and didn’t want to. And now, things are better, in great part thanks to Emma and the consolation she offers.

“Are you guys going?” I ask.

“We’re still between there and Montreal, which wouldn’t be too bad either, right?”

Two Mondays later, however, as she’s pulling up her tights, she tells me that she’s going to leave him. The announcement is so out of the blue and her tone so neutral—and as such so hurtful—that I can’t speak.

I don’t know what to feel. Something doesn’t fit. This is terrible, I think. This is not what was meant to happen.

“Not for you,” she adds with the ruthless frankness I’ve always admired in her.

“For who, then?” is the only thing I can think to say, even though, really, it doesn’t make much sense.

“For myself,” Emma says.

“I don’t understand,” I say.

“It’s pretty simple, I want to be alone for a while. I’ve been thinking about it and I’ve realized that this is what I need.”

“Just like that?”

“It’s not just like that.”

It’s as if I didn’t exist, I think, trying to find my place in the equation and at the same time afraid to ask any more questions.

“Is there something I don’t know?” I ask.

“I’m not going to see you anymore either,” she replies.

The coldness was always there. The coldness wasn’t a sign.

What binds us together? What’s held us together till now?

I get out of bed and start to put on my clothes.

You’re just like any other gringa, I think to say to her. That, or that for me this was never anything more than sex. But once dressed, what I do instead is go up to her and embrace her from behind.

“There’s no rush,” I say.

Thinking about Ignacio. Thinking about myself.

I plant little kisses on the back of her neck, knowing how much she loves it.

She shuts her eyes tight.

And doesn’t respond.

A month and a half later, in December, after three years that feel like ten, I go home. Mom is no longer there and everything is different because Mom is no longer there, and because the distance between what used to and what no longer exists is insurmountable. On my first Sunday back, however, nothing can get in the way of Dad and me firing up the barbecue, and we sit in the shade of the trees, eating and drinking ice-cold beers from the cool box.

Nothing could taste better than the beer as it slips slowly down my throat, far from that town where it’s so hard to live. The heat clings to my skin. Nothing could feel better than this drowsy calm washing over me, next to Dad, who must feel exactly the same.

By our third or fourth bottle I tell him that he should come back with me.

“My life is here,” he replies, even though there’s barely anything left of that life: not his job, not his wife or son, not anything.

“At least come visit,” I say.

He nods, but I know he won’t. And as if they were the only things that existed there, he asks after Ignacio and his girlfriend.

I tell him they’re happier than ever. For some reason that’s what I say, almost wishing it to be true. And a second later, because the first bit doesn’t seem sufficient, I add that they’ve decided to become parents.

Dad answers saying it’s about time I was one, too.

I take a swig from the bottle. The beer there is like water compared to this, which has body and texture and a lingering, tart aftertaste.

“Is there anyone?” he asks, scratching his beard.

I shake my head.

“Tell me,” he says.

“No one, Dad,” I say.

“Tell me,” he insists.

“No one,” I repeat.

And I think about Emma, of course. Emma with her tongue out, transforming. Emma naked and far away and alone. Emma damaging everyone around her.

“We all need someone,” he says, perhaps thinking of Mom, of versions of Mom that I can’t begin to imagine.

Then he takes a swig of his beer and I take another of mine and I realize in that moment that it won’t be long until I’m leaving again.

“Cheers, Dad,” I say.

It’s the easiest thing to say amid confusion or guilt.

He should know.

“Cheers,” says Dad.

Then my father asks what my plans are and I make the mistake of telling him that Ignacio’s girlfriend is coming by so we can go for lunch.

“And he’s not going?” Dad asks.

“He’s away,” I say.

He says nothing. I struggle to picture him on the other end of the line.

“Dad?” I ask, hearing him grunt.

“Don’t you go fooling around with her,” he says.

I didn’t expect this from him, let alone in these terms.

“Listen to me,” he says.

“Yes,” I say.

“You’re not going to fool around with your friend’s girlfriend.”

“I know, Dad. You don’t need to tell me that.”

But he won’t let it drop.

“Ignacio has done a lot for you. You can’t do this to him.”

“I know.”

“This isn’t how you repay him,” he says.

“There’s really no need for all this,” I say.

And later, in my room, before heading out for lunch, as I enter her and start to move on top of her, I can’t get Dad’s alarmed tone of voice out of my head.

He calls again that evening, inventing some lame excuse. What he really wants to know is how it went with Ignacio’s girlfriend.

“She didn’t come in the end,” I say. “She called to say they needed her in the lab.”

He says nothing, deciding whether or not to believe me.

“And you didn’t go in, too?” he finally asks.

His life has changed substantially since they pensioned him off. He always said he would die at his desk, that he’d leave that office feet-first, but the company left him no choice.

“I went in,” I say, “but later, and just for a bit. I had the day off.”

“What did you do?” he asks, delving deeper still.

“I took the opportunity to rest,” I say, as I remember the way Emma’s face transforms when she’s about to come. First her tongue inches out and then her features slowly start to soften and there’s a moment when she’s more beautiful than ever. This look lasts until the shudders peter out, and I watch her, out of my mind, as I come inside her. Then, very quickly, she returns to herself, to her usual hardness, to what I call her Canadian distance, and more often than not she pulls apart right away, as if from one moment to the next she was repulsed by having me there at her side.

“It’s important to rest,” says Dad, even though in reality he never learned how. “I pruned the trees in the yard.”

I hear a noise in background and, with the receiver resting on my shoulder, lean out the window. Two teenagers are walking along the street, both of them in oversized coats. The snow is on its way and soon everything here will be white. As if he’d heard my thoughts, or as if I had some bearing on the trees in the yard, Dad asks if I am coming back in December.

“I don’t know yet, Dad. It all depends on the lab.”

“Well let’s hope so. By the looks of things, we can expect rich pickings from the fig this year.”

A silence hangs in the air. The teenagers have already moved on and there’s nothing on the street, absolutely nothing.

“Well, then,” he says out of nowhere.

“Well, then,” I say. But I don’t want him to go yet. Despite the fact that we have nothing left to say, despite the fact that we’ve already spoken twice today, for a second I feel like asking him to stay there a bit longer.

“Get some rest,” I say.

“Thanks,” he says.

And we hang up together.

“When’s Ignacio back?” I ask Emma the next day. We usually see each other once a week, but with him away the routine has changed.

She folds her clothes and lays them on the chair. She’s in nothing but her panties now, and in the end they, too, come off. She ignores my question.

Sometimes I think about her childhood and teenage years, about her youth, and about how different it must have been from Ignacio’s and mine. My dad and his were best friends and we grew up together. We went to the same high school, the same college, and then he came to try his luck here. He found it hard to settle in but did eventually, and a few years later he convinced me to go, too. More than anything, I accepted to get out of my miserable job, which paid less than a fifth of what Ignacio was offering.

I watch her throw herself on my bed. The heating’s on. It’s hot. A fake heat—outside everything remains cold.

We’ve hardly said a thing since she arrived, but this doesn’t matter so much now that she’s waiting for me naked in bed.

“Come here,” she says.

I stay where I am, watching her.

Her milky skin, her lush pubis.

What binds us together? Why are we here?

“Come here, go down on me,” she says seriously, without a hint of playfulness.

When I come across him in the lab, Ignacio embraces me as if we’d been reunited after years apart. He’s at least eight inches taller than me and it’s an awkward kind of hug because he doesn’t bend down far enough and for a few seconds my head rests against his chest.

He’s come back full of beans.

“Well, I can confirm that there is indeed a world out there,” he says. “The world goes on, it exists.”

I smile, but don’t say anything.

“With streets and bars and noise. With smells,” he says, “with normal folk.”

He doesn’t seem it, but he’s a seriously bright guy. I don’t know anyone as generous or dedicated to his job, although he doesn’t seem that either.

“How was the conference?” I ask, unable not to think of Emma. It’s like I can still feel her in my mouth, like she left her taste in me.

Ignacio reels off a lengthy answer.

But I can no longer focus on what he’s saying.

Dad calls in the evening. He doesn’t mention Ignacio or his girlfriend. Either he’s forgotten all about it or he’s decided it’s better not to push the matter. He does, however, bring up Christmas.

“So you’re coming back in December?” he asks.

“I’m still not sure, Dad,” I say.

“Don’t you get vacation?” he asks. “How is it possible you don’t get vacation? We’re talking about the First World, aren’t we? That’s the reason you stayed.”

Unlike Ignacio, I’ve not been home for three years; something Dad finds it hard to accept . “How come he visits and you don’t?” he asked over and over last time.

In the office the next day, I study the calendar on one of the computers.

Ignacio seems twitchy.

He manages to sneak a peek at my screen from his seat.

“You should do it,” he says.

He witnessed the damage; he knew about the prolonged devastation caused by Mom’s sudden death two years ago. I couldn’t go back and didn’t want to. And now, things are better, in great part thanks to Emma and the consolation she offers.

“Are you guys going?” I ask.

“We’re still between there and Montreal, which wouldn’t be too bad either, right?”

Two Mondays later, however, as she’s pulling up her tights, she tells me that she’s going to leave him. The announcement is so out of the blue and her tone so neutral—and as such so hurtful—that I can’t speak.

I don’t know what to feel. Something doesn’t fit. This is terrible, I think. This is not what was meant to happen.

“Not for you,” she adds with the ruthless frankness I’ve always admired in her.

“For who, then?” is the only thing I can think to say, even though, really, it doesn’t make much sense.

“For myself,” Emma says.

“I don’t understand,” I say.

“It’s pretty simple, I want to be alone for a while. I’ve been thinking about it and I’ve realized that this is what I need.”

“Just like that?”

“It’s not just like that.”

It’s as if I didn’t exist, I think, trying to find my place in the equation and at the same time afraid to ask any more questions.

“Is there something I don’t know?” I ask.

“I’m not going to see you anymore either,” she replies.

The coldness was always there. The coldness wasn’t a sign.

What binds us together? What’s held us together till now?

I get out of bed and start to put on my clothes.

You’re just like any other gringa, I think to say to her. That, or that for me this was never anything more than sex. But once dressed, what I do instead is go up to her and embrace her from behind.

“There’s no rush,” I say.

Thinking about Ignacio. Thinking about myself.

I plant little kisses on the back of her neck, knowing how much she loves it.

She shuts her eyes tight.

And doesn’t respond.

A month and a half later, in December, after three years that feel like ten, I go home. Mom is no longer there and everything is different because Mom is no longer there, and because the distance between what used to and what no longer exists is insurmountable. On my first Sunday back, however, nothing can get in the way of Dad and me firing up the barbecue, and we sit in the shade of the trees, eating and drinking ice-cold beers from the cool box.

Nothing could taste better than the beer as it slips slowly down my throat, far from that town where it’s so hard to live. The heat clings to my skin. Nothing could feel better than this drowsy calm washing over me, next to Dad, who must feel exactly the same.

By our third or fourth bottle I tell him that he should come back with me.

“My life is here,” he replies, even though there’s barely anything left of that life: not his job, not his wife or son, not anything.

“At least come visit,” I say.

He nods, but I know he won’t. And as if they were the only things that existed there, he asks after Ignacio and his girlfriend.

I tell him they’re happier than ever. For some reason that’s what I say, almost wishing it to be true. And a second later, because the first bit doesn’t seem sufficient, I add that they’ve decided to become parents.

Dad answers saying it’s about time I was one, too.

I take a swig from the bottle. The beer there is like water compared to this, which has body and texture and a lingering, tart aftertaste.

“Is there anyone?” he asks, scratching his beard.

I shake my head.

“Tell me,” he says.

“No one, Dad,” I say.

“Tell me,” he insists.

“No one,” I repeat.

And I think about Emma, of course. Emma with her tongue out, transforming. Emma naked and far away and alone. Emma damaging everyone around her.

“We all need someone,” he says, perhaps thinking of Mom, of versions of Mom that I can’t begin to imagine.

Then he takes a swig of his beer and I take another of mine and I realize in that moment that it won’t be long until I’m leaving again.

“Cheers, Dad,” I say.

It’s the easiest thing to say amid confusion or guilt.

He should know.

“Cheers,” says Dad.

Larga distancia

Luego mi padre pregunta qué voy a hacer y yo cometo el error de decirle que viene a buscarme la novia de Ignacio para ir a almorzar.

¿Y él no va?, pregunta papá.

Está de viaje, digo yo.

Se queda callado, no puedo imaginarlo al otro lado de la línea.

¿Pa?, pregunto apenas lo escucho soltar un bufido.

No vas a meterte con ella, dice él.

No esperaba algo así y menos de esa forma.

Escuchame, dice.

Sí, digo yo.

No vas a meterte con la novia de tu amigo.

Yo sé, pa. No es necesario que me lo digas.

Pero papá insiste.

Ignacio ha hecho mucho por ti y no puedes hacerle eso.

Yo sé.

No le puedes pagar así, dice él.

No hace falta todo esto, digo yo.

Y más tarde, en mi cuarto, antes de ir a almorzar, mientras la penetro y empiezo a moverme encima suyo, no puedo dejar de pensar en el tono alarmado de papá.

Por la noche vuelve a llamar. Ha inventado una excusa torpe, lo que quiere saber es cómo fue con la novia de Ignacio.

Al final ni vino, digo. Llamó para decir que la necesitaban en el laboratorio.

Él se queda callado, decidiendo si creerme.

¿Y tú no fuiste?, pregunta al fin.

Desde que lo jubilaron su vida ha cambiado de forma sustancial. Siempre dijo que moriría en su mesa de trabajo, que de su oficina iba a salir con los pies por delante, pero en la empresa lo obligaron.

Fui, digo, pero más tarde y solo unos minutos. Hoy tenía libre.

¿Qué hiciste?, sigue indagando él.

Aproveché para descansar, digo yo mientras recuerdo cómo se le transforma el rostro a Emma cuando está a punto de venirse. Primero saca la lengua y después los rasgos se le van distendiendo de a poco y hay un momento en el que se vuelve más hermosa que nunca. Dura lo que duran sus estremecimientos y yo la miro enloquecido mientras me corro dentro suyo. Luego, muy pronto, vuelve a sí misma, a su dureza habitual, a lo que yo llamo su lejanía canadiense, y casi siempre se aparta de inmediato, como si de un segundo a otro le diera asco tenerme cerca.

Descansar es necesario, dice papá, aunque en realidad él nunca supo hacerlo. Yo podé los árboles del jardín.

Escucho ruido afuera y, con el auricular al hombro, me asomo a la ventana. Por la calle veo caminando a dos adolescentes que llevan puestos abrigos demasiado grandes para ellos. Pronto empezarán las nieves aquí y todo será blanco. Como si me oyera pensar o como si sus árboles tuvieran algo que ver conmigo, papá pregunta si vuelvo en diciembre.

Todavía no sé, pa. Va a depender del laboratorio.

Ojalá puedas. Parece que la higuera va a estar cargadita este año.

Luego sigue un silencio de varios segundos. Las adolescentes ya se han alejado y en la calle no hay nada, absolutamente nada.

Bueno, dice él de pronto.

Bueno, digo yo. Pero me gustaría que no se vaya todavía. A pesar de que ya no tenemos nada que decirnos, a pesar de que hemos hablado dos veces hoy, por un segundo me dan ganas de pedirle que espere un rato más.

Descansá, digo.

Gracias, dice él.

Y los dos colgamos casi al mismo tiempo.

*

¿Cuándo vuelve Ignacio?, le pregunto a Emma al día siguiente. Por lo general nos vemos una vez a la semana, ahora es diferente porque él no está.

Dobla su ropa y la deja sobre la silla, ya solo le queda el calzón, que al final también se quita. Ignora mi pregunta.

A veces pienso en su infancia y en su adolescencia, en su juventud, en lo diferentes que debieron ser de la mía y la de Ignacio. Papá y su padre eran mejores amigos y crecimos juntos. Fuimos al mismo colegio y a la misma universidad y luego él se vino a probar suerte acá. Le costó hacerse de un lugar pero lo logró y unos años después me convenció de que yo también viniera. Acepté sobre todo para huir de mi trabajo miserable, que no pagaba ni la quinta parte de lo que Ignacio me ofrecía.

La veo echarse sobre mi cama, la calefacción está encendida, hace calor. Un calor de mentira, afuera todo permanece frío.

Casi no hemos dicho nada desde que llegó. Pero eso no importa tanto si ya me está esperando desnuda en la cama.

Ven, dice.

Sigo parado a un lado, mirándola.

Su piel blanca, su pubis frondoso.

¿Qué nos une? ¿Por qué estamos aquí?

Ven, chupame, dice ella sin coqueterías, seria.

*

Como si nos estuviéramos encontrado después de años, Ignacio me abraza cuando me lo topo en el laboratorio. Me lleva por lo menos veinte centímetros y el abrazo es raro, porque no se ha agachado lo suficiente y mi cabeza, durante unos segundos, ha quedado reposada sobre su pecho.

Ha vuelto lleno de energía.

Hay mundo allá afuera, dice. Todavía hay mundo, existe.

Yo sonrío, no digo nada.

Con avenidas y bares y ruido. Con olores, dice, con gente normalita.

No lo parece pero es un tipo brillante. Y no conozco a nadie así de generoso y entregado a lo que hace, aunque tampoco lo parezca.

¿La conferencia qué tal?, pregunto sin poder evitar algunos pensamientos de Emma. Es casi como si todavía la sintiera en mi boca, como si su sabor se hubiera quedado conmigo.

Ignacio responde largo.

Pero ya no soy capaz de prestarle atención.

*

Papá llama por la noche. No menciona a Ignacio ni a su novia, ha olvidado el asunto o ha decidido que es mejor no insistir. Sí habla de fin de año.

¿Entonces vuelves en diciembre?, pregunta.

Todavía no sé, pa, digo yo.

¿No tienes vacación?, pregunta. ¿Cómo es posible que no tengas vacación? ¿No que ese era el primer mundo? Para eso te quedabas aquí.

A diferencia de Ignacio, llevo cerca de tres años sin volver, y eso es algo que a papá le ha costado aceptar. Cómo él sí y tú no, preguntó durante semanas la vez anterior.

En la oficina, al día siguiente, reviso el calendario en una de las computadoras.

Ignacio parece inquieto.

Logra ver mi pantalla desde donde está.

Deberías animarte, dice.

Él presenció el daño, supo de la destrucción prolongada, cuando mamá murió sin avisos dos años atrás. No pude volver y no quise y son mejores tiempos ahora. Lo son, en gran medida, gracias a Emma y su consuelo.

¿Ustedes van?, pregunto.

Estamos entre eso y Montreal. Tampoco estaría mal, ¿no?

*

Dos lunes después, sin embargo, cuando se está poniendo las medias, me dice que lo va a dejar. Me parece un anuncio tan sorpresivo, y su tono es tan neutro y por lo tanto tan dañino, que me quedo sin palabras.

No sé qué sentir, hay algo que no cuadra bien. Esto es terrible, pienso, esto no es lo que tenía que pasar.

No por ti, añade con esa franqueza despiadada que siempre he admirado en ella.

¿Por quién, entonces?, es lo único que atino a preguntar, aunque es una pregunta que en realidad carece de sentido.

Por mí, dice Emma.

No entiendo, digo yo.

Es bien simple, quiero estar sola por un tiempo. Lo he estado pensando y me he dado cuenta de que eso es lo que necesito.

¿Así de pronto?

No es así de pronto.

Es como si yo no existiera, pienso intentando encontrar mi lugar en la ecuación y temeroso de hacer más preguntas.

¿Hay algo que no sé?, pregunto.

A ti también voy a dejar de verte, responde.

La frialdad siempre estuvo ahí, la frialdad no era una señal.

¿Qué nos une? ¿Qué nos ha unido hasta ahora?

Me levanto de la cama y empiezo a vestirme.

Eres una gringa igual a cualquier otra, se me ocurre que debería decirle. Eso o que para mí esto fue sexo y nada más. Pero cuando termino de alistarme, me acero y lo que hago más bien es abrazarla por detrás.

No te precipites, digo.

Pensando en Ignacio. Pensando en mí.

La beso varias veces en la nuca, sé cuánto le gusta.

Ella cierra los ojos seguramente.

Y no responde.

*

Después de tres años que parecen diez, vuelvo a casa un mes y medio más tarde, en diciembre. Mamá ya no está y todo es diferente porque mamá ya no está y porque la distancia entre lo que existía y ya no existe es insalvable. El primer domingo, sin embargo, sin dejar que nada nos detenga, armamos la parrilla y papá y yo comemos debajo de los árboles, tomando cervezas que helamos en una conservadora.

Nada sabe mejor que la cerveza entrando lento, lejos de ese pueblo donde resulta tan difícil sobrevivir. Con este calorcito que se pega en la piel, nada se siente tan bien como el amodorramiento que se va expandiendo por dentro, al lado de papá, al que seguro está pasándole lo mismo.

A la tercera o cuarta botella le digo que debería irse conmigo.

Mi vida está aquí, responde él, aunque de esa vida ya no quede nada, ni su trabajo ni su mujer ni su hijo ni nada.

Por lo menos de visita, digo yo.

Él asiente apenas pero sé que no irá. Y como si lo único que existiera allá fueran ellos, casi automáticamente pregunta por Ignacio y su novia.

Le digo que están más felices que nunca, por algún motivo le digo eso, casi deseándolo. Y más un rato, porque lo otro ya no me parece suficiente, añado que han decidido ser padres.

Papá responde que es tiempo de que yo también lo sea.

Le doy un sorbo a mi cerveza. Las de allá son como agua al lado de esta, que tiene peso y textura y un regusto amargo persistente.

¿Hay alguien?, pregunta rascándose la barba.

Niego con la cabeza.

Contame, dice.

Nadie, pa, digo yo.

Contame, insiste él.

Nadie, repito.

Y pienso en Emma, por supuesto. Emma con la lengua afuera, transformándose. Emma desnuda y lejos y sola. Emma haciendo daño a todos los que tiene alrededor.

Siempre es necesario que haya alguien, dice él, pensando quizá en mamá, en formas de mamá que no sé imaginar.

Luego sorbe de su cerveza y yo vuelvo a sorber de la mía y se me ocurre entonces que demasiado pronto deberé volver a partir.

Salud, pa, digo.

Es lo más fácil de decir cuando hay confusión o culpa.

Él debe saberlo.

Salud, dice papá.